


first bud

by nicholese



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Percvial Graves, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Consent so dubious ponzi schemes look legit, Hurt feelings all around, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Credence Barebone, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholese/pseuds/nicholese
Summary: Credence Barebone's Beta status changes completely one month into the fall semester.





	first bud

**Author's Note:**

> Helpfully edited by ali~

Credence Barebone's Beta status changes completely one month into the fall semester. 

 

He's loping along the sandy yellow track at Ilvermorny High, quick feet carrying him past a couple of stragglers, but not so quickly as to keep pace with the front runners and their expensive Nikes, tanned golden skin and long legs moving fluidly above the ground. For a moment or two, they seem to hover, even fly. Credence wonders what it would be like to have such confidence in your skin, to be so certain in your attempt to succeed at the impossible. He ducks his head as if to avoid this futile line of thought. 

 

To covet is a sin. Unbidden, Ma's voice rings sharply in his mind, and the old shame pushes his attention away from those sleek, slender limbs. 

 

Nobody admires the lanky Credence Barebone, skin stretched taut on an overlong frame. Sometimes, he feels spread too thin, scraped raw, the badness Ma tries to beat out of him seeping from under the flesh like mist. It envelops his limbs and neck, before creeping up towards his face. 

 

Such dreams always end badly. He never remembers anything other than darkness. Darkness and screaming. 

 

Strangely enough, today has been better than most. Credence had managed to sit through trigonometry without breaking anything, the usual mind-numbing frustration strangely absent. The rowdy pack of boys who enjoy harassing him are gone, at least for awhile **,** with hockey season starting up. Now: gym class, feeling oddly powerful with the wind whipping through his bad haircut. 

 

Two laps. Three. The afternoon wears away in a sun-bleached haze **,** and Credence's breath comes painfully now, hot breath puffing out over his shriveled tongue. He thinks longingly of water, and the dryness hurts more. Reflexively licking his lips, the sour taste of saliva makes him gag. 

 

Just ahead of him, a couple of students peel off the track and high-five each other. They're blisteringly fit, t-shirts hugging sculpted bodies that glisten with sweat. Most annoying of all, none of them appear to even be  winded. 

 

Alphas. Swaggering, they loudly catcall the girls who jog past giggling. Feet spaced apart the breadth of their broad, powerful shoulders, strength and vigour and something more primal laces their very biology, dominance written in flesh and blood. Some call this a sign of good stock, a pedigree to be proud of. 

 

Credence thinks them snobs, pretentious, though deep down he may truly believe that they're better than him. He stares at them with no expression at all, and they briefly fall silent, smirking and dismissive. 

 

He isn't anything to them, or anyone else for that matter. Just a quiet loner, a sexless Beta tucked at the back of class. Perhaps he should be envious of them, these golden children born and bred to be the best, the top, overachievers destined for places far beyond his imagination. Nature and nurture both working in their favour. But Credence isn't somebody prone to envy, anyway. He tucks his head down and stays out of trouble, long accustomed to the mean whispers and rude stares. He clenches his bruised knuckles to hide red-lined palms and hunches over at the back of class, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Usually **,** it works. 

 

The dull monotony of the passing scenery repeating again and again in an endless loop makes his mind wander. Below him, his legs are getting tired, and the feel of sweat sodden cotton is abjectly horrible. He slows down, suddenly aware of aching muscles. The waning autumn sun seems far too bright, glinting painfully off the grass into his eyes. Bird cries cease to be background noise, and instead shrill in tandem with the pounding of his head, the too-quick beating of his heart. His vision blurs for just a second, and Credence crumples to the ground. The aching realization that the stitch in his side is something worse keeps him sprawled face down, breathing hard. 

 

Somebody nudges his foot, and with great effort Credence sits up and stands on shaky legs. Briefly, the world tilts and wobbles. The gym teacher appears, his gaze dark and questioning. 

 

"Mr. Graves- " he manages to choke out. "I- I don't feel too good. May I go to the bathroom?"

 

Mr. Graves excuses him from the lesson with a nod, and he gratefully staggers away.

 

Halfway there, Credence realizes that he isn't going to make it. He's dying, insides liquefied into fire, and there's a disgusting wetness trickling down his inner thigh. It could be blood. He slides a hand down to check **,** and no: it's worse. 

 

A clear, viscous fluid coats his finger, and when he lifts it up to his nose for closer inspection: sweet. A strong, unmistakable odour.

 

The truth of it sinks in bone-deep, nestling among the other incongruities of his screwed up life. He, ugly and undesirable Credence Barebone, is Omega. Despite the proof wetting his finger and shorts, the wrongness of it stings. Credence knows that he's odd, and the strange timing of his presentation just makes everything worse. Autumn, a time of death and dormancy, is completely out of sync with the usual Omegan cycle which tends to peak along with nature. 

 

He makes his way into an equipment shed and slams the door shut, trips over something and nearly sprains his ankle. In the cool darkness of the shed **,** he can hear the rush of his pulse, an insistent ebb and flow. The dampness between his legs intensifies, spreading into a sticky puddle underneath his thighs. Credence aches so much with the _want_ of it, but the smooth polyester of his gym kit glides uselessly against oversensitive skin, teasing, caressing. Utter torture against his virginal hole. He pushes one finger in, then three, but it's hopeless. The long, crooked digits fit horribly when his body is preparing itself for something, _someone,_ else entirely. He lets out a helpless mewl in the dim half-light, plaintive and so horribly bestial, partially glad that there's nobody to see. 

 

The tattered pages of his biology textbook come back to him, second hand and two editions out of date, but nonetheless accurate. The anatomy of a male Omega, sliced open in a cross-section, livid red guts and pert ass revealed. Helpful labels pointed out the various characteristics that facilitated breeding. In estrus: the glands overflowing, pumping out the sweet, lubricating slick. Vocalisations which attract Alphas with notes of piteous distress. Prostrate, kneeling in the appropriate position for easy penetration, though it seems like a sort of base worship.

 

Credence remembers the stories he'd heard, whispers between bent heads at recess of thosewho'd invariably screwed themselves up. Omegas were notoriously prone to be victims of domestic abuse, dragged into bad relationships for sex and the instinctive comfort that came with heat bonds. Some tired of being a slave to their biology and overdosed on contraceptive drugs, trying to become infertile but getting cancer instead. Now, one of them, with the same carnal desperation flooding his senses, Credence becomes acutely aware of his vulnerability. 

 

This sense of fear is irrational, ridiculous even, but hotwired into his very marrow. A biological imperative for Omegas to bond, find a mate and propagate the species. He's become nothing more than a cockholder, a breeding vessel. It's true - society may trumpet equal opportunity for all, but Alphas are by far the dominant gender. Alphas run the government and make decisions, trapped too by their instinct to protect Omegas. Some say stifle, but there are few, too little to make a difference. A bill to give Omegas the right to ownership of property and the like has gone nowhere for the past seven years, bogged down by conservative senators.

 

Since his sixteenth birthday came and went, Credence has always assumed that he was a Beta. Blissfully unaware and complacent, he has none of the protective measures potential Omegas usually have on their person. Pills, sprays and even single-use syringes loaded with a chemical cocktail of suppressants. 

 

Credence hears the door open, and panic grips his heart, makes it stutter rabbit-like **,** feeling very much like prey. He looks up as another person enters the small, cramped space. 

 

"Hey, kid. Are you alright?"

 

The low baritone of Mr. Graves' voice does _something_ to Credence, jerks his back up and curves the vertebrae into a bow. Mr. Graves sounds like music, like an order Credence cannot help but follow, because he  _is_ giving one, albeit unintentionally _._ A quirk of evolution he's tuned to obey, hindbrain racing with long-buried impulses, pheromones coursing through his blood. His vision sharpens to focus on the bright red whistle that hangs from Mr. Graves' chest, his _teacher's_ distractingly muscled chest. This is all too effortlessly ignored by his heat-crazed mind. 

 

Here, Mr. Graves is Alpha **,** and Credence is _fucked_. 

 

A whimper escapes his lips, high-pitched and strained. He doesn't miss how Mr. Graves' gaze sharpens or the subtle shift in his posture, the way he leans forward slightly. Something inside Credence is deeply excited by this reaction, and he quickly turns away, embarrassed.

 

Face down, ass up like a typical Omega slut, Credence feels his cheeks burn. He doesn't know if it's from embarrassment or a natural elevation of body temperature, warming up in preparation for an Alpha's knot **.** He trembles, breathes shallowly through his mouth. The poorly ventilated shed is filled with desperate Omega scent.

 

Behind him **,** Mr. Graves is eerily quiet. Some animal instinct worries at Credence, makes him spread his legs wider, show off the weeping hole that begs for the Alpha to stuff  his cock in, knot him full of seed. The dusty cement floor is hard on his hands and knees, not that it makes any difference. Apparently, he is past bothering about bacteria and germs.

 

Credence has never been more excited in his short, sad life. He can _smell_  Mr. Graves, finding out things he never knew or cared about before. His blood sings with a litany of neurotransmitters.

 

Mr. Graves. Older, but no less potent. The pups he'll sire will be strong. And, most importantly, unbonded. He could just take Credence, right there and then. Mate him on the dirty ground like their savannah ancestors, re-enacting the age-old tableau. Slick wells up in fat rivulets at the thought, dribbles down his pale, flushed thighs. His soaking wet shorts have long been forgotten, kicked off skinny ankles and discarded. 

 

Long seconds, then an eternity, pass. What if Mr. Graves doesn't want him? He wants to turn around, spare a glance at the man taking his own sweet time as if inspecting the goods. Anticipation churns deep in his gut, followed by some measure of revulsion. He needs this so, so awfully. The solution for the aching, painful emptiness within him stands within touching distance. Hating himself, Credence hears his voice break as he cries, way too loud and needy in the dirty shed, alone with his teacher and less than two goddamn feet separating them, but more besides in professional boundaries. Or the fact that Mr. Graves is a little over twice his age. 

 

"Please," he sobs, uncaring, and ready to die of shame at the same time. 

 

A large hand presses tentatively over the small of his back, warm and reassuring. Credence himself is shocked by the immediacy of his response, and even more by the pleasure it brings. His shoulders hitch, pushing back into Mr. Graves' hand. Yet, instead of drawing back, Mr. Graves' makes an appreciative noise and trails his hand lower, stroking the bony jut of Credence's hips with his big thumbs. 

 

Credence moans at that touch, low and keening. Lewd, even. But it comes nowhere near satisfying him. He shivers with impatience. Mr. Graves laughs softly. 

 

"Steady, boy _,"_ he says under his breath, as if trying to calm a skittish animal.

 

Credence supposes that he is one at that moment, on the verge of losing all control and setting himself on somebody with easily forty more pounds of muscle mass. Crazed by the hormones running wild in his blood, he is practically nothing more than a bitch in heat. 

 

_Hurry_ , Credence thinks, _hurry before I burn up and die_. The world has narrowed to the musty confines of the shed, and his consciousness is fully occupied by the sensation of Mr Graves' rough, callused skin on his, toughened by years of physical training. Every fibre in his being yearns, an overwhelming wave of desire that floods his mind with pure want. 

 

Mr. Graves' hand dips lower, brushing against the very bottom of his tailbone, the coccyx **,** the unresistant entryway into Credence's wet, dripping need. It's so close to breaching him that he hisses at the touch. 

 

Suddenly, there's a creaking sound as rusty hinges protest against opening. The shadowy corner they're in washes over with weak sunlight, and Mr. Graves instantly removes his hand.

 

Credence can't help but cry out at the loss.

 

"Um." A woman's voice. Miss Goldstein, the one who patiently explained sine ratios that very afternoon.

 

Mr. Graves stands up and walkstowards her, predator-smooth in his movement. There's a hint of a growl in his voice when he speaks to her, but it disappears when she slaps him, angrily saying something indistinct. Mr. Graves seems to snap out of a trance, and leaves the place almost running.

 

That's when Credence scents her unoffensive Beta odour. He looks up, furious and a little concerned, because she has a completely devastated expression when she turns to him.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, then lets the wracking sobs claim him, mourning the absence of heady Alpha scent. 

 

Fighting tears herself, Miss Goldstein looks away from the scene. She types absently into a phone, dialing for help, although it is less of a protective response than a severely delayed one. A useless gesture for the confidential report that she would have to write for the relevant authorities. 

 


End file.
